


January

by screamlet



Category: Actor RPF, Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, Homesickness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-20
Updated: 2010-10-20
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:56:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamlet/pseuds/screamlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>can you visit? it's only been EIGHT MONTHS since we've hung out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	January

**Author's Note:**

> Poor waldorph just wanted some "dirty nasty sex" that should be "hot fast and dirty" and... got this. Doesn't feel finished, but it is for now! Set in January (SURPRISE) 2011.

_so is your movie over yet?_

 _Yeah, filming's finished. Reshoots scheduled in three weeks. When are you coming back?_

 _don't know. can you visit? it's only been EIGHT MONTHS since we've hung out._

 _and strangely homesick. a lot._

 _When are you free? I've got nothing going on, unless JJ suddenly decides to summon us back now. Summon me. Whoever's around. Whatever. When?_

 _um when you can. monday's my day off. you can see the show. come 1/7, leave 1/12 or 1/13._

 _Booked my flight; I'll get there Friday, leave Thursday.._

 _thank you._

*

Winter in New York had two distinct phases: there was pre-New Year's and post-New Year's.

Before New Year's, there was thrumming anticipation, an electric beat running through Manhattan and making everything brighter, louder, intense -- people yell louder, cry harder, grin easier, laugh louder, all in anticipation for _Christmas in New York_ , when all the blues and greys of the city are drenched in artificial color and light and cheer bright enough to make millions of people forget they're on the wrong half of the planet for a few months.

And once New Year's rolls around and away, it's a countdown to spring, and it never comes quickly enough. Winter holidays early in the year are all fabricated, over-saturated (in a bad way), and just fucking _unpleasant_ because they never do the job of making one forget that it's _miserable_ to be in an overcrowded granite city in the dead of winter.

At least, that's what Chris thinks he sees in Zach's nervous posture at the airport. His sunglasses are on, his washed out purple-and-grey hat from last year, jeans, fifty scarves and three layers of puffy vests, and he's still cold, even though there's only about six square inches of skin out in the open.

"Hey," Chris says when the driver leads him over to the car.

"It's so good to see you," Zach says. He leans in for a quick hug and pulls away, but lets his hand grip Chris's elbow. "My place? You're staying with me, right?"

"Sure, man," Chris says. "Let's go."

*

They walk into Zach's place. Zach throws the keys on the table, completely missing the bowl, and begins tearing layers off.

"You okay?" Chris asks.

"I miss home," Zach replies as he somehow tangles himself up in his own scarf. "I miss… everything. Everyone. I miss being _warm_ and January being flip flop weather."

"I'm sorry," Chris says. "It's what you wanted, though, right? It's worth it? You've wanted this --"

"What's that quote? From Wilde?" Zach asks with a faint smile on his lips. "There are only two tragedies in life: not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it?"

"Close enough."

"It's like that," Zach shrugs. "I got you tickets for the show tonight, if you're not tired. I know a guy, and he can get you tickets any time you want."

"Might go tomorrow or something," Chris says." Don't know if I can hop off a plane and sit through as much traffic as I did only to sit in a theater and bawl for hours because you're amazing."

"Tomorrow, then," Zach says. He looks at his phone and sighs. "Okay, back to work. Show tonight. I'll be back around, I don't know, eleven, midnight. You know where everything is."

*

Zach's place is a narrow little townhouse that Chris is disgustingly jealous of, and he's going to comb through it and find out all its secrets except he falls asleep in the guest room first. It's that exhausted sleep of falling into bed after shrugging off his coat and his shoes but nothing else, and waking up every hour or so to shrug off more of the comforter, peel off another shirt, kick off his socks, unbutton his jeans but not slip them off. He wakes up to the lamp on the nightstand turned on and Zach walking past his door, also shedding layers as he goes, dropping scarf by scarf.

Chris must groan or shift too loudly, because Zach backs up and stands in the doorway to Chris's room.

"You slept all night?" Zach asks.

"All night? What time is it?" Chris asks.

"Okay, not all night, but. Evening. Whatever. Didn't you have people to see or whatever?"

Chris shakes his head and slides over on the bed to make room for Zach, who stares for a moment but joins him, peeling off another sweater and dropping it on the floor before crawling in under the comforter.

"You're so hot," Zach murmurs as he shifts under the comforter.

"Right, I know," Chris laughs.

Chris turns on his side away from Zach, which Zach takes as an invitation to move behind him, slip an arm underneath Chris's arm and drape over his ribs, a hand planted on his stomach, his leg over both of Chris's, his forehead to Chris's hair where he breathes him in.

"Would you fuck me, Chris?" Zach asks the back of Chris's head, though Chris can feel Zach's breath growing warmer the closer it gets to his ear. "Fuck me out of this slump. Fuck me back to California."

"Fuck you until you make sense," Chris laughs dryly.

"God, please, if you could do _that_ , I'll nominate you for a fucking Nobel, just -- could you fuck me?" Chris feels Zach's lips at his earlobe, then his teeth capturing it lightly before he repeats, "Please, please," eventually mouthing it into Chris's neck against the skin just behind Chris's ear, down the side of his neck, back up again, and Chris forgets he should respond and thinks Zach would be content just doing _that_ until they pass out.

It's a thought that lasts another second, disappearing completely when Chris pushes back and feels Zach's erection against his ass, made more insistent by the stiffness of their jeans. That flips a switch in Chris that has him sitting up and then flipping over so he's over Zach, straddling his hips, grinding them together as Zach grips his arms and pushes up against Chris.

Chris pulls off his shirt, gets rid of his pants and boxers while Zach throws himself back against the pillows and… stays fully clothed.

"You know, bottoming doesn't mean I do all the work," Chris notes as he digs around in the nearest nightstand for lube. "Like, right now, there's Hedonismbot and then there's you."

"Be nerdier," Zach sighs as he writhes against the sheets.

Chris sits back on his haunches and watches Zach unbutton his shirt so it drapes open and exposes… a tank top. "Seriously, a fucking tank top?" Chris asks. "Fucking hell, do you -- what the fuck? I don't even."

Chris yanks Zach upright like he's a fucking rag doll (and goddammit, he might as well be, doesn't New York do _food_ \-- not that he should talk), pulls his shirts off, and straddles his hips again.

"Fuck me," Zach repeats as he lays back again and takes Chris's dick in his hand. "I just… just do it, okay?"

And Chris would be _happy_ to, hasn't fucked someone who knew what they were doing in longer than he'd like to admit, but there's something -- off about everything, aside from the cloud of misery that seems to be hanging around Zach and driving him to _plead_ for sex when he could just wander into any bar in the tri-state area and get sixty blowjobs in ten minutes.

Though that might chafe after a bit.

Chris tilts his head as he braces himself over Zach, sees how Zach is stroking Chris half-heartedly, his eyes looking off at the comforter or the wall or _something_ that isn't right here, right now.

Well fuck _that_.

Chris places a heavy hand on Zach's collarbone and pushes him into the bed. "I don't care who you're thinking about Zach, okay? But you just dragged me three thousand miles for a fucking five-day booty call, woke me up from my jet lag for whatever _this_ is, and if I'm going to stay in this bed and fuck you, you are going to be here and _get fucked_ , okay?"

"I'm doing that," Zach protests. "Here I am, just -- do what you want."

"Am I talking to my-fucking-self here?" Chris asks. "I just said bottoming isn't lying there like a Victorian housewife, thinking of England or whoever you'd rather be fucking--"

"There isn't --"

"Shut _up_ I don't _care_ I just told you I don't _care_ ," Chris says. He flips the cap on the lube open and pours some out on his fingers, then carelessly slips down to find Zach's hole and push in a finger. "I'm not going to hold you down and fuck you, okay?"

Zach nods but still doesn't get the point, so Chris jabs his finger in a little sharper, pushes in another even though Zach isn't ready and that, finally, does _something_ \-- he winces and closes his eyes, then opens them again to stare at Chris.

"Tell me what to do," Zach says, finally a little breathless like his brain has finally come online.

Chris leans in and presses his forehead against Zach's, but doesn't kiss him. "The reason you like fucking me so much -- reason we've fucked as much as we have -- is that I just let you in, isn't it?"

"You let me do what --"

"No I don't," Chris laughs dryly against Zach's cheek. He leans in towards Zach's ear and says in a low voice, "I open myself up to you -- I fuck you back, I offer myself up to you. I don't lie there waiting for it to be over -- think of it like a human sacrifice. Make me want to take you. Give yourself to me."

And Chris thinks it's a testament to Zach's homesickness, whatever sickness that had brought them here, that Zach _gets it_ , and lets go of Chris. He stops gripping his biceps and put his arms up, grabs the good and creaky headboard as Chris fucks him with his fingers, makes himself prone and exposed -- baring his chest up and open, curling upwards with every thrust of Chris's hand, fucking himself on every thrust of Chris's fingers.

Chris braces himself over Zach, his fingers slipping in and out of him, hitting him deeper and gracelessly, too hard and too fast, brushing too much against Zach's prostate so Zach pushes himself further into the pillows and moans. Chris, strangely enough, feels disconnected from all of it -- he watches, he slips a third finger into Zach and opens him wider, but for all his scolding Zach about "being there" in the moment, he certainly isn't there. Not completely anyway -- it feels like he's watching from some other point, trying to figure it all out and what exactly "it" is, really.

Zach is getting closer, gripping the headboard harder and throwing away any restraint he had before -- Chris watches him shut his eyes tightly and inhale sharply, and Chris says suddenly, "If you shout someone else's name, I'll fucking slap you, I'm not even kidding."

"I can't even --" And Zach clenches around Chris's fingers as his shoulders lift off the bed and he comes hard with a yell, shooting on his stomach and chest and falling back against the pillows, his arms dropping to his sides as he lays there, gasping a little.

Zach, with his eyes still closed, his head turned away from Chris, lets a hand rest on his stomach, resting in his come and covering it. Chris's fingers slip out of Zach and he watches, and wonders if Zach knows he's watching as he rubs a little at the mess, like tired pawing or something (rubbing it into his skin?) but it's his fucking _jizz_ and what the _fuck_?

He can't help it -- Chris can't help but wonder who Zach is thinking of, who he's missing so much he'll lie there in the guest bed, feeling his own come on his chest like someone else shot all over him.


End file.
